


Imbalance

by tristesses



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Leather Kink, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-18
Updated: 2010-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Spock struggles with the adverse effects of conflicting human-Vulcan hormones, and Nyota is positive she can help him. Or, in which Spock is uptight and highly-strung, and Nyota still knows how to help him. 98% porn, 2% plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imbalance

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the prompt "Leather/latex/rubber" at [kink_bingo on Dreamwidth](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile).

The boots rise to just below her knee, crafted out of fine synthetic leather in a brown so dark and shiny it looks black, with impractical laces of a type that's rarely seen anymore, and a chunky low heel, tough and good for running. The toe narrows into a point, just rounded enough to be regulation but still somehow giving off a menacing allure. The wearer of these boots is not to be fucked with, the points say. The wearer of these boots can kick your ass and make you beg for more, they intimate. The wearer of these boots is a woman in charge, controlled, composed, and sexy. They are Nyota's favorite boots.

She slips her foot inside and luxuriates in the smooth rasp of leather against her calf. It's a decadent feeling, in the way little things become decadent aboard a starship, up there with real water showers, vegetables grown in real dirt, sleeping late and waking up to the sun's warmth on your cheek. Leather boots. She wears them only on special occasions, like today. She has matching gloves, and a belt that sees any use only on _very_ special occasions, but those will be saved until after her shift is over; it'd be ridiculous and completely distracting to show up to her station decked out like _that_. Although the gossip would be funny; they say nothing moves faster than scandal on a starship, even if the true story gets mangled like it was passed through an unreliable transporter.

But no, she's really not the type of woman to broadcast her intentions to the entire crew. _Plus,_ she muses as she tugs the laces tighter, flexing her muscle against the restraint, _it's more fun when it's a secret._

With one last check in the mirror, wrapping her hair into its customary tight ponytail, tugging down her hemline, Nyota heads for the bridge. Maybe she looks more cheerful than strictly necessary, especially considering the roaring fight between the captain and his first officer - although, of course, it was Kirk doing most of the roaring, which Spock combated with snide remarks he'd later defend as perfectly logical given the circumstances - but she can't help it; today's going to be a good day. And tonight is going to be a good night.

Besides, she knows at least part of the reason for the Spock's irritability, which is so pointed she can feel it through the fragile bond between them. She even knows how to help.

****

. . .

Their shifts end simultaneously, but rather than confront him immediately, on the bridge or in the mess hall - unprofessional, and too public for the both of them - Nyota waits until it's time to retire to their shared quarters.

She sits on the edge of the bed and looks at him. He doesn't acknowledge her gaze, making a studious effort to ignore her as he changes out of his uniform into the looser black clothes he wears while meditating.

"Nyota," he says finally. "I plan on meditating at this time."

"I'd like to speak to you first," she replies. He considers for a moment, then turns to face her, hands behind his back and dark eyes locked on hers. Nyota dismisses the little jolt she gets from that gaze - even now, the unexpected intensity in those eyes can give her a little shock - and examines his face. His mouth is set, perhaps a little too firmly, and there's a tightness in his jaw that isn't usually there.

"Spock," she begins, then revises her speech. It's essential that she ease into the matter, like always; he's far too restrained to ask for help, or even admit to needing it. "What were you and the captain arguing about earlier?"

A quirk of the eyebrow; he wasn't expecting that question. "Merely a minor matter. It was easily resolved."

"It's not like you to argue about a minor matter."

"The captain was being remarkably persistent." Short answers, also strange; her instincts were right, he _does_ need her. Sometimes decoding Spock feels like a puzzle, one she's absolutely determined to complete.

"A minor matter that makes you angry enough that I, a psi-null human, can sense it without a formal bond?" she asks, and his eyes break away from hers for just a second, enough to know she's touched a nerve.

"It is _nothing_, Nyota," he says, and there's almost annoyance in his voice. She's heard him use this tone on disheveled students and smart-ass stowaways, but never on her, and it's surprisingly wounding. She's silent for a moment, long enough to make him tilt his head in a question, and then says, quietly, "I love you, you know."

Spock is very, very still.

"And I think - I know- that you love me back, even if you can't show it the way I'm used to. And I want you to know that you can trust me, completely and unconditionally."

"Of course, Nyota," he says, barely audible, yet sounding slightly surprised, as if that was a given.

"Then trust me to help you. I can. I want to. You've done the same for me, and that's what relationships are about, give and take." She leans forward, folding her arms on top of her knees, and looks him in the eye, her question unspoken.

Spock remains silent, and Nyota does not know what to do. He's never really responded like this before, so uncertain - but then again, they've never taken it as far as she plans to do tonight, and she knows he can sense at least some of her intent. Lucky for him; she, having no telepathy whatsoever, has no idea what he's thinking.

When Spock moves, she thinks he's going to leave, walk out of the room and ignore what she said - what is no doubt to him an illogical exclamation of affection that has no bearing on the situation, no matter how much Nyota tries to explain why it does. But he sits next to her, almost delicately settling on the very edge of the bed, as if he'd rather run away than be there. _But he is here, and that's what matters._

"My pituitary gland is secreting chemicals incongruous with those already in my system."

Nyota's stomach leaps; these are the words he speaks each time, almost like a ritual, as if it's his way of consenting, or (more likely) justifying what they're about to do.

"More to the point, it is secreting hormones primarily seen in the adolescent development of the human male. I am...unused to these hormones and am having some difficulties in keeping them in check, especially in regard to how they react with my Vulcan physiology."

A slight flush, mostly in his ears, on those pointed pinnae she wants to wrap her lips around. He hesitates, like always, and like always, she prompts, "And the symptoms?"

"A loss of control." His eyes are on her boots; she rearranges herself and drapes her legs across his lap, reclining on her elbow, watching the slight tremors of emotion in his face, so subtle it took her nearly a year and a half to learn how to read them. "An adverse reaction to stressful situations. A negative impact on my reasoning and logic." His fingers, stroking the leather almost reverently; his eyes are lidding, mouth parted just slightly, and Nyota thanks whatever creator there may be for giving Vulcan such sensitive hands. He curls his fingers around the heel, draws his palm over the bumps of the lacing, relishing the disparity in texture, and nearly whispers, "Increased libido."

"Go into the bathroom," she orders, voice equally soft. "Stay there until I call for you."

"Nyota," he says, and it's almost a question. "I have a request, before that."

"What is it?" Her tone is still firm, but she can't help being curious; this is new, not part of the ritual. Spock looks at his hands, then searches her face, like he's expecting a negative answer to the question he hasn't asked yet.

"I would like to strengthen the bond before we begin," he tells her, and his expression is now implacable, stoic.

The request takes Nyota off guard, being so absolutely unexpected; she knows what a bond means to a Vulcan, the intense level of emotion it implies. It's sort of frightening to think about devotion like that - and she's been wanting him to ask for a long, long time.

"If that's fine with you," she says, and is proud she still sounds controlled and somewhat authoritative.

"Why would I suggest it if it weren't?" he asks, and brushes her forehead with his fingers held in the familiar position. Nyota closes her eyes and - yes, there it is, stronger than it was previously, a seemingly fragile thing, something that can only be described as a cord between their minds but is so much more all-encompassing than any metaphor can contain. Her emotions leak into Spock's mind, where he captures them deftly in what she can only think of as a little room created solely for the purpose of storing her emotions in a safe place, where he can experience and enjoy them without their detriments affecting him. And she - well, for a psi-null human, this sort of bond is almost intoxicating, the level of closeness involved breathtaking. She feels Spock's affection, warm and bright in her head, and his frustration seething beneath the surface, and what she thinks is arousal, tingling hot and just within her reach. She embraces it - that's the only verb she can think of to describe what she does, sort of wraps her mind around his and strokes - and it surges like a flame.

He moves his hands from her face, somewhere in the real world, and she opens her eyes. The bond remains. Spock watches her expression, his own carefully controlled. His hands are in his lap, palm-up; she lightly runs a finger along the lines there and he shivers slightly.

"Bathroom," she says, and he rises obediently. Nyota remains on the bed until the door shuts lightly behind him, then moves quickly, stripping out of her uniform and tucking it in a drawer; she'll take care of it later. The boots, she leaves on. Next is her hair; she yanks out the tie holding it up and cards her fingers through it loosely, not really bothering with the tangles. The weight and length of it forces her to stand straighter, and she likes the way that makes her look: official, in charge, powerful.

Nyota kneels naked on the floor - the leather of her boot is pressed between her thigh and calf, and she's sure the laces will leave indents in her flesh if she stays like this for long enough. She pauses for a moment, imagining the marks in her skin, then reaches under the bed to remove a small bag containing her gloves and a long box made of real wood. This she leaves on the bed; the gloves she slips on, fastening the tiny button at the wrist, then rubs her fingers together, listening to the slide of glossy leather against leather. It makes her lips curl in a predatory smile.

"Spock," she calls, standing. She doesn't place her hands on her hips; that feels too much like false posturing, and why do that when she knows she's the alpha dog right now? "Come out."

He does, taking light, quiet steps, and stops a few feet beyond the door. She lets his eyes rove over her, taking in the easy authority in her stance, the rise and fall of her chest, the dark curls at the juncture of her strong thighs. He devours her with his eyes like he'll never have the chance to see her again, all without tweaking a single facial muscle, but when his gaze catches on the gloves she can sense his attention spike, and he gives one hard blink before tearing away and locking eyes with her. Nyota raises one gloved hand, that smile still on her face, and beckons him closer with a twitch of two fingers.

Spock obeys, not looking down until he's right in front of her outstretched hand. He raises his own, and pauses, waiting until she gives him a nod to continue, and then drags two fingers across the palm, along the straight line of her index finger. _Is it the leather that he likes_, she wonders, watching him, rapt, _or that it blocks his telepathy? The eroticism of the unknown?_

It doesn't matter, not when he's here before her. He wraps his lips around her fingers, tongue swirling around the leather, so close to skin but not yet there. The pressure is pleasurable, like a little massage of the hand, but in no way compares to watching him do this; it's just _sexy_, even if that's a word not usually applied to Vulcans.

He reaches a hand as if to steady her wrist but leaves it floating, scant centimeters away from her arm; his eyes are heavily lidded, occasionally flicking up to check on her expression. She loves him like this - well, she loves him all the time, but it turns her on to see him submit, to have him willingly hand over control to her, to trust her enough to let her lead him for a change. And oh, how he _needs_ it; after a session like this he's always looser, more centered, less susceptible to the friendly mockery of the captain. Perhaps it's the hormones, like he says, but privately Nyota thinks he's just too high-strung, always has been, and it's only now that he's found a way to relax -

His hand clamps down on her wrist, and it's shocking, a sudden flood of input to Nyota's brain. She reels for a moment, struggling to sort through the blind arousal and fierce affection channeled through the touch, and Spock takes the opportunity to turn her arm, press his lips to the delicate skin at the crook of her inner elbow, trail kisses like sparks down to where leather meets flesh and bite lightly at the pulse there. Nyota gasps, and twists her hand to grab at his arm and pull him close, crashing him against her; she kisses him hard and open-mouthed, smacking her teeth against his, and he responds in kind, licking and sucking on her tongue while she drags leather-clad fingers through his perfectly combed hair.

His hands slide down her body, pressed hard and palm-down against her skin, pulling her to him tightly; his grip on her waist and hips is so strong it hurts, in that bruise-so-good way she knows from tying her boots too tightly on her legs. When she tilts herself to tiptoe, the better to gain access to his mouth, her breasts and stomach rub against the fabric of his uniform, rough against her swollen nipples; he cups her breast when she moans lightly into the kiss, strokes his thumb across the tender flesh, and suddenly it's too much, the force of her own arousal as well as his pressing down on her, she feels light-headed and almost drugged as she shoves him away - he lets her - and takes a step back. Her breath is uneven and heavy, and she licks her lips as she shakes her head slightly in an attempt to clear it. Spock stares at her, pupils dilated, lower lip bruised green where she must've bit it particularly passionately, but perfectly still, awaiting orders although he's tented his regulation-issue trousers and is rubbing his thumb over his knuckles, caressing his own skin (imagining it's her - using her nails to trace patterns on his palm, her hand dark against his eerie paleness, the vision darts across the bond and comes to her in a flash).

"Take off your clothes. Shut your eyes," she orders, then adds, "And don't open them until I say to." He does both, shucking off his clothes without shame; Nyota feels like she can see every eyelash laid in shadow against his cheek.

She turns to the bed and the box sitting there, running a hand down her stomach almost absently, pressing her gloved fingers against her dark triangle and sending a quick jolt of pleasure through her body. Behind her, Spock inhales sharply; he felt it too. The thought makes her grin, as she steps into the complex straps of the contraption in the box, fastening the buckles around her waist, carefully adjusting until it hits just the right spot between her leg; it makes her huff out a breath and close her eyes for a moment. She's so wet. She wants to fuck Spock badly.

She picks up the little bottle that's also in the box and turns. Spock is naked, hands behind his back as if reporting for duty, eyes shut but moving under the lids.

"Look at me," she commands, and when he does his whole body tenses at the sight of the leather cock strapped on to her body. She checks the bond quickly, looking for any sign of trepidation - this is a new thing, something she's never even mentioned before, and she needs to be sure he wants it - but there is none, only the pulsar of heat in her mind that indicates his excitement. All systems go, then. "Now face the desk. Bend over and put your hands flat on it."

She walks toward him, steps slow and purposeful, and each bob of the strap-on sends shivers running through her; the leather of the cock has nanowires laced into it, each programmed to release a tissue stimulant when touched. Just rubbing against it makes her agonizingly horny; getting fucked by it might be overwhelming. She's looking forward to finding out.

Standing behind him, she strokes the curve of his buttocks before delivering a stinging slap; to his credit, he barely jumps, just a little surge forward on his toes. Nyota coats the fingers of her right hand with lubricant, glad that she's wearing gloves; the slippery leather will make this a little easier. She runs her fingers lightly down the crease, smearing the lube around his entrance, and he shifts his weight to press against her fingers, almost impatiently.

"Have you done this before?" she asks, honestly curious. He doesn't reply, not verbally, but a wordless assent rolls from his mind to hers. She wonders with who; the mental image of Spock and the captain springs into her mind, and she's entirely startled for a moment, but she's good at picking out his memories from her fantasies and she's certain this is the latter. Although the thought does have promise, she in fact likes the idea. She slides a finger inside him, giving him time to adjust, then another, slow, slow, pumping her fingers carefully, smooth leather inside of him and his thoughts are jumbled now, mostly images and inchoate desires and she steps closer, shifts her balance, rubs the pointed toe of her boot against his leg and he shudders, his need seeping into her mind and making her clumsy as she slicks down the cock, guides it inside, gritting her teeth as the base bumps against her clit.

Spock's body tenses as she eases inside, seeking contact with something other than insensate leather, and she grips his hips, pulling off the unused glove with her teeth and placing her hand on Spock's back, skin against skin, a reminder that someone's there, that he is not and never will be alone. She begins to establish a rhythm, short shallow strokes with a pause in between that make him huff out breaths that aren't quite moans but close, very close; his elbows have given out and he's lying with his cheek against the cold surface of the desk, palms still flat like she told him to, even though his fingers are twitching with the desire to touch himself, hand against hand or hand on cock or _anything,_ she can feel how much he wants it, craves it, but he won't because she told him not to - oh, _Spock._

Nyota rubs his back with her ungloved hand, the other dangling at her side, and cants her hips, making him utter a hiss, which turns into a moan as she thrusts inside him, deeper and harder, and she speeds up her motion because the pressure against her clit is almost painfully good and the sensation flooding her nervous system is a delicious deluge of adrenaline and the neurological equivalent of the words _oh yes, god please more_; she's not sure what's coming from Spock and which emotions are genuinely hers and with each thrust Spock whimpers like she's never heard him do and she commands him to touch himself, her mouth maybe forming the words but the true order sent through the bond - and watching Spock wrap one hand around his cock, jerking roughly in rhythm with her thrusts, his mouth on his other hand, which is still flat on the table, sucking bruises on his fair skin, shit, it is just so fucking hot, watching him fall apart at his stoic Vulcan seams, and when he comes - _oh_, it crashes down over Nyota and she cries out with him, only catching the very edge of it and barely unable to handle it - how the hell _he _does she has no idea - and when she pulls out of him, she nearly stumbles backwards, propping herself against the wall and staring at him, still bent over the desk, a sheen of sweat all over his body that Nyota just wants to lick off him, his own come all over his hand, and as she watches he raises that hand to his mouth, eyes on her, and laps it off, which nearly makes Nyota melt into a quivering mass of arousal, and god, she is still so _hot_, she wants him to fuck her hard -

"Come here," she says, but she doesn't have to order him; he can probably feel her need through the bond, so before she's finished speaking he's on his knees before her, carefully unbuckling the strap-on and setting it aside, nudging her legs apart and pressing his lips to her inner thigh in a soft kiss. She wraps her fingers in his hair and lets her head fall back; he licks her slowly, methodically, tongue grazing her clit without actually sending her over the edge; he's being far too precise right now so she cups the back of his head with one hand, pressing his mouth tighter to her, and moves her hips, making him grip her leather-clad leg to keep her steady, and in response he sucks her clit hard and laves it with his tongue, unrelenting, until she comes much harder and sooner than she intended, with a scream and a rush of pleasure that leaves her weak and him shuddering with the aftereffects. She sinks to the floor, shaky, and Spock loops an arm around her waist and shifts their position, so she's cradled in his lap. It's probably a good thing; Vulcans are too heavy for her to hold him like this, after all.

Nyota tilts her head up and kisses him, deeply, a tender kiss unlike the others they've shared today. They are both content merely to touch now, little kisses on the lips, cheek, neck, bodies pressed together, palm-to-palm and fingers interlinked, their eyes closed, relying solely on the bond between them as a guide. She is absolutely spent, exhausted both physically and emotionally, but she scans him quickly, searching for the frustration and anger that prompted this in the first place. None there, like every time before this. _Could do worse for a stress reliever,_ she thinks, and chuckles slightly, curling in his lap. His mind is mellow; it makes her sleepy. He presses his lips against her hair, whispers her name, over and over.

"Love you too, Spock," she murmurs, and drifts off, skin against skin.


End file.
